


skies are blinking at me

by liquidsky



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Everyone Is Alive, Except for Georgie, M/M, Serial Killers, Switching Rights!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-10-19 21:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20664146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsky/pseuds/liquidsky
Summary: The bodies were just the beginning, really.





	1. Prologue

Richie fucking hated the rain. He leaned against the side of the building, angling himself so he wouldn't be caught under the fucking _ocean_ that poured down from up above. With shaking hands, Richie tried to no avail to light up a goddamned cigarette, but it just didn't work. 

He fidgeted uncomfortably in his work clothes, dropped the unlit cigarette on the floor and attempted to loosen his tie. He was so fucking _tired._ All they had so far were seven bodies, if they could even be called that, mangled as they had been, and no fucking suspect to speak of. Richie closed his eyes and inhaled, pointedly not thinking about the tiny polaroids scattered around their evidence board. The children's rooms, the toys and trinkets and trophies. The child-like handwriting along the walls, the smell of dirt clinging to floor and the sheets. And the blood, of course. 

Richie had been on the job for ten years, and he'd never once seen that much fucking blood. The memory pooled in his stomach and gurgled up his throat until he leaned forward, hands on his knees, heaving and aggressively spraying the dirty sidewalk with the donuts he'd had for breakfast earlier that morning. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, reaching up rub at his prickling eyes a second later. 

That's how Eddie found him, when he shoved through the door and paused to stand next to Richie, just shy of out of the rain. "Are you okay?" 

He stared at Eddie, the dark circles under his eyes more prominent, his suit wrinkled, hands just as obviously shaky as Richie's.

"Sure, Eds," he said, "I'm really fucking great."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, here we are again. another WIP. this is, like, the world's tiniest prologue, i know, but hopefully i'll manage to whip together a (kind of? hopefully?) big first chapter today. 
> 
> the title is a line from kings of leon's _closer_ because i'm a loser who finds it atmospheric.


	2. Too Much Vomit, Not Enough Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know the "pennywise is a serial killer" premise is bleak as fuck and no one wants to be sad about fictional children in their spare time, but, like...

Much like every other shitty thing that had ever happened in the history of the fucking world, the first body was found on a Tuesday.

If asked, Richie would tell anyone right to their fucking face that Tuesdays could very well _rot_, for a variety of reasons, most of which rested on the fact that Tuesdays meant doing paperwork for a hundred hours straight, taking periodical gulps of shitty coffee and trying not to lose his shit over Eddie’s hands.

Tuesdays were slow days, made worse by having none of his usual buffers around, which then meant he had no one to distract him from staring at Eddie's arms and hands and general everything, and he was forced to face up to the fact that he was embarrassingly in love with him and spent every single one of his waking moments tracing the lines of Eddie’s face with his eyes. It was super fucking embarrassing, and Richie had personally expected that being a grown ass man would have made him immune to the stereotypical teenage crush, but somehow being old enough to know what it felt like to reach out and _touch_ had only aggravated the matter. 

Eddie was frowning at his computer screen (blessedly unaware of Richie’s staring) when the telephone rang, and Richie got a first row seat to the different emotions that crossed over his eyes in the matter of seconds. Impatience first, then surprise, followed by dread so obvious that Richie’s stomach clenched inside him. Eddie’s eyes were hard when he looked up, 

“They need us at a crime scene,” Eddie stated, suspiciously emotionless, and Richie scrambled up from his seat to follow him out. 

– 

On his first day on the job, back when he had been a hopeful young man with too many quips and not a lot of good sense, there had been blood. Not a lot, by his unfortunate colleague’s standards, but enough that Richie remembered feeling almost as though he would faint, his legs yielding like jelly, arms too stiff, heart too fast. He remembered staring at the blood, following its trail up to the body (a thirty-five-year-old man with his throat sliced open) and wishing he could just disappear. 

What he felt now wasn’t that. Somehow, it was worse. 

First, there was the smell. Richie had grown up in Derry, and was all too familiar with the burning smell of shit and piss concocted into a whole new fucking horror show, but he still balked at the stench brimming about the room. Eddie, who until a second ago had been standing next to him, ran toward the bathroom in a hurry. Richie heard him throw up, watching as most of the people gathered around the scene looked down at their feet to avoid looking at anything else. The room, or at least the parts of it that weren’t drenched in blood and what he could only guess was _skin_, was painted a whimsical shade of pink, which looked almost phosphorescent under the flashing lights of the camera. 

A ruined teddy bear stared up at him from its place on the bed, and Richie blinked at it, noticing too late that his hands were shaking so much he had a hard time keeping his arm still. 

Breathing loudly, Eddie padded back into the scene to pause next to Richie. He brushed their arms together, so Richie glanced at him. 

“Have you ever–” Eddie started, voice failing him the second he looked away from Richie and toward the room. He cleared his throat, eyes shiny, “_Fuck,_ uh. Have you–”

Richie stopped him, “No. Whatever this is–”

“Is really fucked,” Stan completed, nodding at them as he approached. “We’ve been here for hours and there’s still, just. It’s a fucking mess.”

Richie looked at Stan, taking in his measuring tape and notepad, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not,” Stan told them, “Bev will be done with the photographs in a few, but Ben’s still working on the sketch.” 

“Have you measured anything yet?” Eddie asked, rubbing a hand over his nose. 

Stan frowned, “No. The spattering here is a fucking mess, as you can probably see.”

“I kind of wish I couldn’t,” Richie commented, and Eddie bumped into him again, 

“Where’s the–” Eddie cleared his throat, “Where’s the body?” 

“We don’t know. The victim’s parents found the crime scene, but no body. Bev’s thinking the unsub might have taken the victim to a secondary location, but there’s no spattering anywhere else in or around the house.”

“When you say victim–” 

Stan met his gaze with a serious look, “I mean the body. There’s no way anyone would’ve survived this.” 

Richie frowned, trying not to breathe in but inhaling anyway, choking slightly. He stared at the walls behind Stan, eyelids twitching at the sight. The smell was godawful, but it wasn’t the worst of it. It was jarring – the blood, the slick stripes of skin over some of the furniture, sticking to the sheets and the carpeted floor. Richie’s eyes landed on hair, too, and he swallowed around the bile threatening to spill out of his mouth. 

Eddie was looking dead-eyed at the fucking teddy bear when Richie glanced at him. His face looked too white, and the sweat that had been pooling on his temples was now dripping down the sides of his face. Eddie rubbed a hand over his cheek, right as Richie turned back to Stan, 

“Why does it smell like this?” 

“We don’t know yet,” Stan told him, “We haven’t found any signs of decomposition fluid anywhere.” 

Richie sighed, “Could it be just that whoever killed her smelled like the fucking sewers?”

“Yeah, but it’s unlikely that the smell would linger this long.”

“Okay,” Richie nodded, even though it wasn’t, “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Nothing until I can measure the spatters,” 

Richie grimaced, “Awesome.”

– 

The rest of the house was fucking pristine, Richie found, as he and Eddie walked downstairs to meet Mike, who was waiting for them in the kitchen with matching coffee cups in hand. He gave one of them to Eddie before taking a big sip of the other, 

“So, easiest warrant ever?” Richie asked him, “Also, where’s _my_ fucking coffee?”

Mike grinned, “Get it yourself.” 

“You got Eddie one,” Richie complained, watching from the corner of his eye as Eddie took a sip of his coffee and let out a sigh. 

“That’s because I like him better,” Mike told him, “Have you been upstairs yet?”

“Unfortunately,” Richie said. Eddie had been unusually quiet since they’d left the station, and Richie was weirdly off-put by having to fill all the silences, “Have you?”

“Yeah,” said Mike, sliding a folder to Richie over the counter, “I thought maybe you should take a look at this.” 

Eddie shuffled closer to Richie as he opened the folder, their shoulders brushing. He smelled a little like coffee, and a lot like sweat, but the scent of him was a welcome change after the fucking nightmare upstairs. Richie breathed in, shifting slightly into Eddie’s space. Eddie made little noises as he read, and Richie clung to each of his exhales instead of to the words in front of him. With palms growing steadily sweatier by the second, Richie felt as Eddie tensed up next to him, the white of his face turning almost blue.

Richie looked up at Mike, “Have you told Bill yet?”

“Not yet, no,” Mike said, pulling the files back to him, “Should I have?”

Richie stared, feeling more and more lightheaded as silence stretched itself between the three of them. Finally, Mike looked away.

“Don’t tell him,” Richie decided, ignoring Eddie’s protesting noise, “Just–not yet, okay?”

“Rich,” Mike started, but Richie had turned away from them already, moving fast past a confused Beverly and out of the house. 

– 

“The victim’s parents are at the station,” Eddie told him, sitting down on the steps beside Richie. 

His voice sounded wrong, all hoarse and quiet, but Richie could have sworn it was still the best thing he’d ever heard. Eddie inched minusculely closer, his knee bumping against Richie’s. 

“Should we go back upstairs?” Richie asked, turning his face. He gazed at the laught lines on Eddie’s face, shaking himself out of feeling as though he was too young to be there. They weren’t, and Richie was well-aware he’d left all hope of a normal life at the door when he had taken the job ten years ago. 

“Not yet,” said Eddie, “I know we have to, but let’s just stay here for a second.”

“Okay.”

– 

It took Stan the better part of four hours to measure all the spatters. 

Richie and Eddie waited downstairs, speaking first to the the pair of police officers that were pacing around the living room looking startled, then to Bev, who stood motionless next to them until Richie touched her elbow and she nearly pushed him over the back of the couch. The smell had spread during the last hours, and Richie had watched as Eddie left the room to vomit no less than three separate times. 

Bev hadn’t had much to say at all, other than reporting that they found no evidence of anyone that wasn’t the victim. Eventually, her eyes grew so teary that she had to excuse herself and go outside, and Richie was left with Eddie’s tormented sighing and the collection of happy-looking pictures that were hung around living room. 

Eddie was still too quiet, and Richie felt remarkably off-balance, looking around the house with practiced interest and taking note of every little detail about the family that was waiting for them at the station. They seemed happy, in a normal all-American way, and Richie found himself smiling at the photo of a ginger little girl dressed in a princess gown, a gap-toothed grin on her face. 

He looked at the picture for too long, probably, air not filling his lungs quite right, until Eddie called his name from the kitchen and Richie had to tear his eyes away from the girl and walk up to him. 

Eddie had his back to the door when Richie wandered in, his index finger pointing at a drawing that was glued to the fridge, “Rich,”

“What’s–” Richie wiped at his eyes, moving to stand next to Eddie, “Is that–”

Eddie nodded, “The fucking barrens?”

“It looks exactly the fucking same,” said Richie, “She’s eight, there’s no way she went there alone.”

“We have to ask her parents,” Eddie added, so Richie snapped a picture of the drawing before handing the phone to Eddie.

“Let Stan know we’re leaving,” Richie told him, “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

– 

“We’ve never been down at the barrens before,” the mom said, and Richie felt more or less like ripping his hair off his head. Eddie offered her a patient smile, still speaking too quietly, and the mom sniffled, “Why would we have taken Annie there? We’re–we’re good parents, we–”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, ma’am,” Eddie interrupted, “We found a drawing at your house, you stuck it to your fridge?”

Annie’s mom nodded, “Okay,” so Richie handed her the phone, watching as her brows creased, “I don’t–what’s wrong with it?”

“Go back one picture, please,” Richie asked, waiting for her to acquiesce before continuing, “See that? Those are the barrens. They’re right outside the sewers.”

“Annie is a creative child.”

“Okay,” Richie agreed, “Do you have any idea what might have inspired the drawing?”

“We haven’t taken her there.”

“It’s a good place for picnics,” Richie lied. 

She sniffed again, “I wouldn’t know.” 

“That’s okay, mrs. Cavanaugh,” Eddie interrupted, swiftly offering her a hand, “Thank you, we’ll let you know when we have more news.”

Richie leaned back against the desk as Eddie walked her out of the room, giving him a blank stare when he turned around and closed the door behind him, “What’s your take? Is she full of shit or what?”

“No fucking clue,” Eddie sighed, “It’s gonna be impossible to tell for now, I doubt they’ll be able to act normal for a while.”

“They’re not acting guilty, though,” Richie pointed out, and Eddie wrinkled his nose at him. 

“Thank fuck,” said Eddie, “This shit is harrowing enough as it is.”

Richie walked over to plop down on the chair next to Eddie’s, watching him carefully before speaking, “What should we do about Bill?”

“Tell him, obviously,” Eddie answered, “I know you’ve got some shit idea that we should keep it from him, but it’s not gonna work.”

“Mike’s not gonna tell him,” Richie argued. 

Eddie fidgeted with his tie for a second, “Bill’s not a fucking idiot, Richie, he’s gonna find out soon enough and he’s gonna think he can’t talk to us about it because _your_ dumbass decided to keep it from him.”

“Let’s say you’re right,” Richie argued, “What the fuck would we say?”

“The truth.”  


“Eddie–”

“It’s _Bill_.” Eddie said, springing up from his chair and puttering around for his things. 

Richie watched him do it, eyes following the movement of Eddie’s hands as he shoved his assortment of shit into his bag. “Where are you going?”

“The fuck do you think?” Eddie snapped, “I’m going home.”

Richie got up too, reaching for his cellphone and his wallet, “Come home with me.”

“Richie–”

“Fucking _please,_ come on.” Richie begged, “Just this once.”

Eddie blinked at him, “It’s never just once with you.”

– 

The only time Richie liked his shithole apartment was when Eddie was in it. He seemed to fill every crevice and fissure, his movements comfortable as if Richie’s crappy living room wasn’t only Richie’s at all. 

He stepped inside ahead of Richie, toeing his shoes off and turning around to pull him into a kiss, then another, dragging Richie forward by the tie and into the bedroom, pushing him down, straddling his lap, licking into his mouth and down his neck and further still, his hands seemingly everywhere. 

He pawed at Richie with a familiar kind of desperation that Richie couldn’t really escape, only give in to, exhaling loudly as Eddie pushed his shirt open and licked a stripe across Richie’s sternum, biting softly at the skin there. Eddie’s fingers undid the buttons of his pants and hooked around the waistband to pull them down, every touch perfectly caught up to the rhythm they both knew just how to move to, Richie raising his hips right on time, a smooth sequence of throwing Richie’s pants to the other side of the room and closing his mouth around him easily, Richie feeling breathless and too hot as he threw his head back and closed his eyes. None of it was new, not really, but it felt novel all the same, with Eddie’s fingers trailing a slick path to where Richie wanted them. 

Eddie was the loudest person Richie’d ever met, but he was always quiet like this, even as he pulled away to gasp against the side of Richie’s thigh and watch as Richie watched him curl his fingers inside. Richie looked away first, panting loudly, tongue too big for his mouth, blinking up at the ceiling and twisting a hand around the sheets when Eddie’s bottom lip dragged purposefully against him. 

Richie got lost in it, his mind a cacophony of less and less coherent versions of Eddie’s name until Eddie covered Richie’s body with his own, biting at his shoulders, his sticky fingers curving around Richie’s waist. 

Richie pulled Eddie’s fingers to his mouth because he knew it annoyed Eddie and snorted out laughter when Eddie pulled them away, dodging Richie’s lips when he leaned up for a kiss. Richie’s ribs felt too tight, but he kept gasping for breath, his whole body thrumming lightly as Eddie moved away then back into him again, this time in, maneuvering Richie’s legs how he wanted them, his hands slick but firm, holding him in place. 

Richie could’ve fought it, but he let him, moving as Eddie wanted him to, easily, as though it never occurred him not to, even though it had, and he kept choosing to let go anyway. 

He reached for a pillow as Eddie slammed forward, Richie’s body too accustomed to his to feel anything but bright and sort of weightless. Richie gasped, and Eddie kissed every inch of him he could reach except for his mouth, his lips pressing down on Richie’s cheekbones and his chest and his throat. His fingers were cramping with his hold on the pillow, and Eddie’s grunting sounded louder than usual, sharper, so Richie closed his eyes and melted into Eddie when he got it just right, hands scrambling down to close around Richie’s thighs, fingers digging in so hard they were sure to leave bruises, and Richie tried to say something but choked on air instead, Eddie’s name on the tip of his tongue, on his hands as they circled Eddie’s back to pull him closer. 

– 

Eddie was dressed when he came out of the bathroom, and that too was familiar, though not enough that Richie didn’t ask him to stay. 

“I have to go,” Eddie apologized, as he always did, “But I’ll see you tomorrow at the office.”

Richie nodded at him, “Okay,”

“I’ll bring donuts,” Eddie said, and Richie closed his eyes. 

“See you tomorrow, Eddie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> strictly refusing to abide by height laws when it comes to bottoming. tall bottom rights! 
> 
> (also, apparently we have _angst_ now? it's a lie. i'm not an angst person in general, not to worry!)


	3. Rodents

Richie had dreamt of Bill, he realized, staring at his own reflection in the bathroom and trying to stop his hands from shaking. He had bits and pieces, flashes of Bill’s tear-streaked cheeks and his heaving sobs, the loud way he had repeated Georgie’s name again and again and again. Richie had never been one for having vivid dreams – whatever horrors caught up to him in his sleep tended to fade away easily enough once he’d woken up, but that one stuck. 

He shoved both of his hands under the water, rubbing them together and breathing in through his nose to stave off the panic he felt rising up his throat. He closed his eyes, and all he could see was Bill’s stricken features, so he opened them again, attempting a smile at his own reflection that inevitably came out as more of a grimace. 

Richie turned off the tap, haphazardly dried his hands and adjusted his tie just in time to run right into Eddie as he pushed into the bathroom, and they were left to stare at each other with matching gloomy expressions. Eddie looked rough under the green hue of the room, his hair sticking up in different directions as if he’d been running his hands through it, which was a bad sign because Richie was painfully aware of each of Eddie’s little ticks, and that had never been one of them. 

“Any news?” Richie asked, moving out of the way so Eddie could walk up to the sink. He watched as Eddie winced at his own reflection. 

Eddie shoved his hands under the tap just as Richie had, tilting his head at him shortly, “Stan’s coming over to give us the official blood spatter report in a few.”

“Okay,” said Richie, leaning back against the wall. “Have you talked to Bill today?”

“Not yet.” Eddie shook his hands before reaching for the paper towels, “Bev said he’s coming in later, though.”

Richie sighed, “When did you talk to her?”

“She texted me earlier,” Eddie said, “Said she and Ben are worried. She asked me about you, too. Whether you knew yet.”

“Fucking great.” Richie rubbed a palm across his face, “Everyone fucking knows already. That’s good.”

Eddie looked at him. “They’re worried. And they’re right, we all fucking should be. You know we’re gonna have to talk to him about it, right?”

“I know.” 

Eddie walked past Richie and out of the room, so Richie followed, watching the back of his head, his exposed neck. He kept his eyes on Eddie as Eddie sat down on his chair and grunted quietly, and as he pinched the bridge of his nose and started flipping through the files on his desk. 

Richie took a deep breath, “There was no body.”

“We’ve all read the same report, Rich.”

“There was no body, and there wasn’t–nothing like here, either, no signs of what could have happened to him.”

Eddie frowned at him. “But something did happen. You fucking smelled it, tell me it’s not exactly as Bill described it.”

“It’s been 27 years.”

“Yeah, it has,” said Eddie. “But the drawing, and the smell. Do you really believe it’s a coincidence?”

“It could be.”

Eddie stared at him. “I know. But do you fucking believe it is?”

“No, Eddie.” Richie told him. “I don’t fucking think it’s a coincidence at all.”

– 

Stan hung by the espresso machine while Richie and Eddie read through the report. It was as detailed as usual, every miserable aspect of it described in stiff, mechanic wording that made the bottom of Richie’s stomach drop all the way to his feet as he took in the information. Beside him, Eddie cleared his throat, and Richie glanced up at him to see that he’d gone back to looking white, his mouth set in a grim line that Richie hated so much he felt like pressing his fingers to the corners of Eddie’s lips and pulling up. 

“They were all impact stains,” Richie finally commented, glancing up at Stan. “Just–our only projection spatter was arterial spurting? What–”

“I don’t fucking know. That much blood should’ve had some cast-off,” Stan told them, inching closer so he could point at one of Bev’s pictures, “See here? This spattering means there was more than one blow from different directions, but we couldn’t find anything that could help us identify the weapon. Anything that caused this much damage would’ve left cast-off spatters–” 

“–But you didn’t find any.” Eddie concluded, “Jesus, what the fuck. How else would they have done it? That’s not–You can’t rip someone’s skin off with your bare hands.”

“You could,” Stan argued, “But you’d need nails for that, or teeth, which would’ve left DNA behind, and we haven’t found any yet.”

Richie groaned. “This is a shitting clusterfuck. What else do you have for us?”

“Pictures,” said Stan. “Ben’s sketch is in the folder, too, by the way. The lab’s still working on the smell. No decomposition fluid was found, so it has to have been something else.”

“Has someone from the lab been down to the sewers yet?”

“No,” Stan said, “That’s part of the reason why I’m here, actually. Figured it’d work better if we went together.”

“We checked the barrens yesterday,” Eddie said. “The smell was the same, but we didn’t find any evidence.”

Stan looked them up and down before answering, “You should probably change. We’re actually going in this time.”

“Oh,” Richie made a face, “That’s fucking great.”

– 

The barrens looked pretty much the same as it had yesterday, which was pretty much the same as it had when they were kids. It smelled _bad_, and it was objectively the last place on earth anyone should find themselves in, ever, but Richie still found himself caught in a weird kind of nostalgia when he stumbled down the rocky path and watched Eddie and Stan do the same. 

Eddie wrinkled his nose, just as he always had, and Richie glanced past him to give Stan a questioning look, “See anything that looks interesting?”

They watched in silence as Stan retraced their steps from the day previous, and Richie wasn’t sure whether to feel pissed off or relieved that Stan didn’t find anything more than they had. 

“Okay,” Stan said, “Be careful down here, okay? And Richie, know that I’ll kill you on the spot if I see you splashing shit.”

Eddie snorted, so Richie glared at Stan. “I fucking wouldn’t, dude.”

“Better fucking safe than sorry,” Eddie said, and Richie shoved him to the side softly before starting after Stan. 

– 

If he’d thought the barrens smelled bad, it really wasn’t anything compared to the absolute hellish fucking _stench_ of the sewers, so Richie pulled his shirt up his nose, glancing at Eddie when he heard his quiet gagging noises. He thought he’d been used to it, but as it turns out, there really was no getting used to the smell of centuries-old _shit_ and god-knows what else. Whatever was down there could probably have turned fucking radioactive by then, and Richie was pretty impressed by Stan’s hyper focused competence in scanning every bit of trash and unknown grime for signs of recent human activity. 

“I thought you said the smell wouldn’t have lingered that long,” Richie said, watching Stan squint at the wall. 

Stan didn’t respond, still staring in absolute silence, and the flashlight on Eddie’s hands trembled slightly when a loud noise echoed from the other end of the tunnel. Stan didn’t move a muscle, so Richie turned around to shoot Eddie a frown. 

Eddie sighed, “I really fucking hate it here.”

“Man up,” Richie told him. “You hunt serial killers for a living, this is nothing.”

“We’re pretty much knee-deep in shit, Richie. There could be fucking _gators_ here, that’s way fucking worse than serial killers.”

“_Gators_?” Richie repeated. “What do you think this is? Fucking _Lake Placid_?”

“That’s a croc, asshole.”

Richie rolled his eyes, “Same difference–”

“Will you idiots shut up for a second?” Stan interrupted, “I’m thinking of something.”

Richie took a step closer to him. “What?”

“We haven’t checked the skirting boards.”

Neither of them answered for a second, until Eddie pushed forward to stop next to Stan. “The smell.”

“The walls would’ve been too obvious,” Stan said. “Did you know that a lot of the smell here is from dead rats?”

Eddie grimaced, “Fuck no. Do you think–”

“That is so fucking foul,” Richie stated, right before Stan pushed him to the side and strutted out of the sewers, both of them hot on his tracks. 

– 

Eddie found him compulsively washing his hands in the Cavanaughs guest bathroom, his eyes prickling from the smell that had spread around the house after Stan had pulled the skirting boards apart and revealed a collection of dilacerated rat corpses. 

“Holy fuck.” Eddie sighed, hip-checking Richie so he could shove his hands under the tap too. “I’m at my fucking wit’s end here.”

“This is good,” Richie told him, clearing his throat when Eddie frowned at him, “Not–just, bad choice of words, sorry. I meant that at least we know more about the unsub. They’re taunting the parents. Or us, I guess. But it’s not just about the killing.”

“Ignoring Bill’s thing for a second.” Eddie suggested, patting his hands dry and moving to look Richie in the eye. “They’re too organized. Stan said there were no cast-offs or transfer stains, which has to mean that they were before the attack to plant the rats, or just waited for the victim in the bedroom.”

Richie nodded, “Then there’s how they left, too. With the body, but with no blood trail to speak of, no residue of anything, no nothing. Just–” 

“Disappeared into thin fucking air,” Eddie concluded. “How the fuck is that possible?”

“With careful fucking planning, is how.”

Eddie sighed. “You think they’ve done it before.”

“Yeah,” said Richie, “No such fucking thing as coincidences in this town.”

“Which leads us back to Bill,” guessed Eddie, frowning when Richie nodded. “We have to speak to him today.”

“The report didn’t mention any rats, did it?” 

“No,” Eddie scratched his cheek, “But there was the fire not that long after. So maybe they didn’t find it in time.”

Richie blinked at him, startling when Stan knocked on the doorframe and leveled them a look. 

“I’m done,” he said, “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

Eddie nodded, but didn’t make any moves to follow him down right away. Instead, he leaned against the wall for a second, eyes searching Richie’s. 

“Do you think–”

“Yes,” Richie answered, too fast, the end of his question carved into every inch of Eddie’s face. “I think they’re doing it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fully had a plan of working with longer chapters this time around, but i guess i hadn't really antecipated that writing "heavier" (more plot-focused) stuff would take as long as it does, so... yeah... i'll try my best to sort my shit out for future chapters!


	4. Bill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that one moment in which you're forced to confront that english isn't your first language - because apparently you just forgot the word _homicide_ existed even though it's super fucking similar to the freaking portuguese word for murder. good! good!

Bill was waiting for them in the office when they ambled in, walking too close together and looking perfectly in sync in their obvious defeat. He stood up, and Richie blinked at him, trying his best to conciliate the sobbing Bill from his dream to the Bill that stood before them, with his jaw clenched and eyes hard. 

“I already know.” Bill announced, so Richie sat down on the chair behind the desk and watched as Eddie sighed. 

"Have you read the reports?" Richie asked him. 

Bill nodded. "They were on your desk when I came in."

"Okay,” said Richie. "How are you–” 

“–Don’t.” 

Richie frowned at him. “_Bill,_” 

“I’m not–It doesn’t matter how I feel,” Bill told them, leaving no room for discussion. “Have you found anything else yet?”

Pushing a hand through his hair, Richie glanced away, so Eddie cleared his throat before saying, “The unsub left dead rats in the bedroom. Behind the skirting boards.” 

“That’s where the smell was coming from.” Richie added, focused on how Bill’s eyebrows twitched up briefly. 

“They never–the old report didn’t mention anything about skirting boards,” said Bill.

Eddie nodded. “We’re thinking maybe the fire spread before they could have found them. Obviously it’s just speculation since we have no way of knowing whether they were left there in the first place, but–”

“–It makes sense.” Bill said. “That’s enough for me.”

“Bill,” Richie told him, “We can’t–there’s still a lot to figure out here.”

“I don’t need you fucking _babying_ me, Richie.” 

Richie stared at him. “I’m not. I’m just trying to–”

“-I know what you’re trying,” Bill interrupted. “And I know why, okay, but you don’t have to.”

“Fine.” Richie snapped, “But we still can’t let you in on every detail, you know that.”

“Fucking–When have you ever given a shit before?” 

Richie sighed. “It’s different this time.”

“How?” 

“Because it fucking is,” Richie answered, too loudly, “We can’t just let civilians–” 

“I’m a fucking civilian now?” Bill snarled, “When has that ever fucking stopped you?”

“For fuck’s sake, Bill.”

Bill scowled at him, cheeks bright red, his jaw clenching so much it just about contorted his face. It wasn’t a look Richie had ever found fitting – even as teenagers, back when each and all of them had lost themselves in everlasting arguments and petty fighting, Bill had remained kind, his serious eyes enough to stop them on their tracks, his reliable calm holding them together. It wasn’t that Bill had never snapped. Instead, it was only that he had never aimed it at Richie, or at any of them, not even once. 

Richie gazed at him, wishing he could turn back time and change everything that had ever happened to them. He would trade anything if it meant Bill would never have to look that way again. 

“Sorry,” Richie spoke first, watching as the fight bled out of Bill until all that was left were his sad eyes and defeated posture. “Fuck the rules, right? You can–just, promise me you’ll stay with us.”

Bill sighed, “When have I ever left?” 

– 

Working the case with Bill glued to their side was just as stressful as Richie had imagined it would be, and he found himself trading too many worried glances with Eddie over the top of Bill’s head while they worked, dedicating at least half of his focus to making sure Bill kept himself distracted enough not to ask too many questions. 

Richie couldn’t think of a single person in the whole goddamned universe that he cared about more than Bill, but he really fucking wished with all his might that Bill would just _leave._ He even thought about calling Mike, if only he trusted that Mike would have come up with an excuse to get Bill out of their office instead of just joining them for the rest of the evening. Richie sighed, glancing at Eddie again. Eddie grimaced at him, so Richie frowned. It was probably unfair that he felt so weirdly off-put about Bill’s presence there. Richie knew well enough just how strongly grief still clung to him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that letting him get this close to the case would turn out as a massive fucking shitstorm on their part. 

Still frowning, Richie watched as Eddie flipped through the reports again, his mouth pinched in a way that made him look pretty miserable. Richie didn’t feel any fucking better – they didn’t have much to go on yet, nothing but Stan’s lab reports and a collection of interviews with the list of people they had found were connected to the Cavanaughs in one way or another. All of whom had perfectly foolproof alibis. 

Richie stared at Eddie, at the tired lines on his face, at the familiar way his hand came up to scratch at the scar on his cheek. He was still looking when Eddie glanced up at him, tilting his head in a silent question that Richie had no answer to. 

Eddie offered him a quiet smile before looking away from him and back to the piles of paper scattered around his desk. He got up to change the placing of some of the photos on their evidence board, squinting. Bill followed him, and Richie wiped his palms down on his pants. 

“I’m going outside for a bit,” he announced to the room at large, getting up from his seat as Eddie and Bill looked at him. He got the hell out of dodge before either of them could say anything, shaking his hands beside him and feeling too fucking big for his skin. 

He walked too fast down the stairs, skipping steps, heart crawling up his throat, inhaling sharply as soon as he pushed past the main door. 

It was sunny outside, if still cold as shit, so Richie paused with his back against the wall to stare up at the sky then back down at the bypassers, trying to focus on their appearances, on the details of their faces.

Richie exhaled. They had nothing. Just–jack fucking shit, and Richie felt too heavy, strung-out in a way that he couldn’t recall ever feeling before. It was all around him, thick in the air, and he could feel it on his fingertips, looming just out of his reach, the building sensation that something even worse was on its way. He thought about Bill, about his nightmare, about the sewers and the rats and Georgie and Annie’s bedroom and the fucking teddy bear looking up at him from the bed. Richie wiped his palms on his thighs again, sweaty with the certainty that whoever had taken Georgie and killed Annie Cavanaugh was about to do it again.

Richie shook himself, looking up at the sky and trying to breath in the sunshine. He inhaled the crisp air, scrubbed a hand over his face, huffed out a sad breath and tried not to think about Georgie, focusing instead on watching as a couple walked past him with their kid dangling from both of their hands. 

Richie felt like crying. Or throwing up. Both, maybe. Either in quick succession or at the same time. He looked at the child, his sunny smile and small hands, probably not older than Georgie had been when Richie had seen him for the last time. Bleak as it was, Richie found himself measuring him. A child that small would’ve fit inside a trunk, but a bigger one wouldn’t. He thought of Annie – she had been tall, according to her parents, but that didn’t really mean much, and, if Stan was right and Annie had been dead already when they took her out of the house, she could’ve easily been folded into even the smallest of vehicles. 

At least _that_ much they knew – whoever the unsub was, they had to have had a vehicle, and Richie figured they could safely exclude motorcycles and bicycles from the list. He thought about the rats, then, their cloying, suffocating smell. The unsub would have needed some sort of safety equipment, too, shit like gloves and possibly a mask if they were handling dead rodents, but Richie doubted anyone with that level of organization would have paid for those in anything other than straight cash.

He took another shaky breath, pushing away from the wall. In short, they were pretty much fucked. All they had was inconclusive evidence. He had to admit that the connection of Annie’s case to Georgie’s was flimsy at best for now, even if he knew, deep inside, that it was true. 

Richie adjusted his glasses before crossing his arms over his chest. He thought about Eddie standing in front of their board upstairs. He thought about them at thirteen, then pushing on forty. 

Shaking himself, Richie scurried back inside the building then up the elevator and across the floor to their office. 

Eddie looked up at him when he burst through the door.

“The unsub has to be at least 45 years old,” Richie told them.

Eddie blinked, “Working on the assumption that the cases are connected, yes.”

“Okay,” Richie said, “Let’s just–fuck, I know what I said earlier, but let’s assume they are, just for now. The unsub has to be at least 45 years old. Not a lot of people go down to the barrens, so we could assume, just for now, that they live here, and have for long enough that they know what to expect of what could be considered a sketchy area.”

“Right.”

“They’re highly fucking organized, and the state of the crime scene has changed but we still have two of the most important aspects, meaning the sewers hold some sort of significance.”

Bill glanced between them, “Why do you think they took such a long time to do it again? Or do you think they just haven’t stopped? ”

“We didn’t–there weren’t any other big child homicides or disappearances in this timeframe. At least not here,” Eddie said.

“We’d have to double check,” Richie told Bill, “But I don’t think we’ve had any assault or murder charges with this level of aggression, and none of the investigations were left open.”

“Okay,” Bill said, “So what? They just–stopped?”

Eddie scratched the side of his face, “They could’ve left town and only just come back.”

Richie looked at them, feeling jittery and out of sorts and only then realizing that what he had in mind wasn’t anything he wanted to share with Bill. Sighing, he plopped down on his chair, avoiding Eddie’s calculating gaze and the sharp downturned curve of his mouth. 

“Maybe,” he said, before offering Bill a serious look, “I’ll let you stay here while we do this if you promise not to do anything stupid.”

Bill frowned at him, “This isn’t _Prisoners_, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“You sure about that, Dover?” 

Bill just rolled his eyes, moving his chair away from Richie’s desk and closer to Eddie’s. Eddie tilted his head at Richie, a silent question that he answered with a cut-off nod. 

“Do you still have the list?” Eddie asked, this time aloud, and Richie passed it to Bill, who glanced at it briefly before handing it to Eddie. 

Richie blinked at the crease on Eddie’s forehead before rolling his shoulders, suppressing a wince. “So, we’re starting with over-45s who work at the places on the list.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Eddie told him, so Richie started typing.

– 

Midnight crept up to them with barely any warning, and Richie found himself blinking blearily at the clock once his stomach grumbled loudly enough to startle him out of his thoughts. Bill had gone home about four hours ago, when Mike had teleported to their office and dragged him away, though not before he’d offered Eddie a coffee and Richie an empty-handed nod that Richie had answered with a loud, “Fuck off.”

Eddie and Richie had been alone, then, just the two of them, each working on their own side of their shared puzzle in silence. Richie yawned, eyes watering, and when he opened them it was to find Eddie watching him with a cautious look. 

Richie met his gaze, waiting. Eddie opened his mouth once before closing it again and moving to stand by the board. Richie followed Eddie’s eyes as they followed every picture and trailed down the notes they had pinned along with a few key aspects from the report.

Eddie turned his back to the board so he could take Richie in.  


“You think the unsub kept Georgie alive,” he stated, and Richie wished he could take it back, shove the words back inside his mouth so neither of them would have to admit that the thought had ever crossed their minds. 

Eddie couldn’t, though, so Richie just gazed back at him, the same tired feeling from before weighing down his bones. 

“It would explain why it took them so long to act again.”

Eddie didn’t react. “It’s been twenty-seven years.”

“I know that.” Richie said. 

“How long?” Eddie asked him. “How long do you think he was alive for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this chapter read like a knockoff criminal minds or what?


	5. Sleepover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 84 years later...

Richie's apartment was dark when they wandered in, Eddie walking too slowly behind him and closing the door with a quiet click that Richie glanced at over his shoulder. The late hours meant Richie's building was blessedly silent, so Richie slumped down on the couch and shut his eyes, attuned to the small sounds of Eddie toeing off his shoes and losing his jacket. 

The sofa dipped when Eddie sat down beside him, and Richie turned his head to watch as Eddie chewed on his bottom lip with a frown. 

"I fucking hate today," Richie told him. 

Eddie nodded, either to himself or to Richie, every line on his face seeming harsher under the dim light of Richie's living room. 

He turned to look at Richie, too, eyes searching before he seemed to find something, though Richie had no real idea what. Eddie shuffled closer to him, moving slowly until their lips met and Richie exhaled through his nose and leaned forward into Eddie. 

"Don't go home today," said Richie when they separated, the words so familiar they left a funny taste in the back of his throat. He had asked him enough times that he should have known better than to expect other than Eddie's apologetic refusals. He didn't walk to be alone with his thoughts, though, was the thing. He didn't want to _have_ thoughts at all, and he knew well enough that having Eddie around helped. 

Eddie frowned, looked away from Richie for as many seconds as it took for him to heave out a sigh that sounded all too world-weary. "It's not a good idea."

"I know," Richie told him, because he did. "Do it anyway." 

"We said–" Eddie paused. "We fucking said this wouldn't complicate things." 

"It's the least complicated part of all this, Eddie. For fuck's sake."

"It's not." Eddie argued, standing up from the couch in what Richie could only have guessed was an effort to put distance between them. "We need to focus on the case, I can't be–"

Richie ran a hand through his hair. "What's the difference? Everything's the same when we wake up, business as fucking usual, just–"

Eddie looked at him, watched as Richie stopped talking and sighed, and Richie felt too hot under his work clothes, glancing up at him from where he sat too flustered and weird to really hold on to his arguments. 

"Okay," Eddie said, finally. "We can try, just this once." 

"Thank you," Richie told him, and promptly sprang up from the couch to cup Eddie's face in his hands and lick into his mouth. Eddie had never been easy, not for anyone and especially not for Richie, except for that – the moment Richie ran his hands down Eddie's sides and palmed the curve of his hips, pulling him closer and biting his jaw, moving up and swallowing each of Eddie's sighs and grunts and the rumbling noise he made when Richie rubbed a hand down against him, practiced and teasing. Richie had known Eddie for long enough that he somehow felt as though he knew all of him, both the things he said and the ones he didn't, yet he was still caught off-guard by the eagerness of Eddie's hands pushing Richie's jacket out of the way, how he shoved Richie down on the couch and straddled his hips, grinding down against him and setting a heady pace Richie couldn't hope to keep up with. 

He groaned, and Eddie followed the sound with his lips, kissing a wet path down Richie's throat. "You should fuck me."

"Yeah?" Richie said, looking at Eddie and the flush on his face. "We should–"

"Here." Eddie stopped him, "Will you? Right here?"

Richie stared at him before fiddling with the zipper on Eddie's pants, trying to push them down past his thighs. Eddie's breath was warm against the side of Richie's face, and he sounded winded already, dick straining under the fabric of his underwear. Wanting Eddie wasn't anything new, if Richie was being honest, he was as used to the sizzling heat that spread up his spine as he was to just about everything else on their little routine. Eddie gasped around a mumbled iteration of Richie's name that sounded both breathless and slick, and Richie wrapped a hand around him easily, twisting his wrist and smiling against Eddie's brow when Eddie pressed his face to curve of Richie's neck. 

Eddie was honest like this, pushing forward into the clutch of Richie's hand and attempting to bite at the skin of his throat, the faint tremors of his legs on either side of Richie's making him seem all the more desperate. With his free hand, Richie pulled him even closer, breathing his gasps in. Eddie leaned away from him for just long enough to get rid of both of their shirts, and as soon as he had sat down he started pushing Richie sideways so he would lie down on the sofa, Eddie's body following his easily until they were pressed together from head to toe. 

Richie ran his hands all over Eddie, feeling the warmth of him, the lines of his back and the softness of his sides. He breathed in, and at every exhale Richie could feel the air stutter lightly on his throat, as though he kept choking on grunts. Richie pushed his thigh between Eddie’s, pressed up so Eddie could grind down against him and groan high on his ear. He was heavy on top of Richie, the weight of him almost like a safety blanket, and Richie wanted so much to be in him that even the air around them felt charged, electric. Eddie gasped when Richie’s hands traveled down to his ass, then again when he pressed his fingers against him and kept pushing, Eddie tight around him, breathing hard into the curve of Richie’s neck. 

“Like this?” Richie muttered, quiet, pushing deeper when Eddie bit him in response. “Good?”

Eddie didn’t answer, and honestly, Richie hadn’t expected him to – he knew how to touch him, which buttons to push, every possible cheat code to make Eddie tremble above him, caught between Richie’s body and his hand. He kept touching him, two fingers, then three, not slick at all, but Eddie didn’t ask him to stop and Richie knew better than to think he should’ve. He switched places clumsily, flipping them over so Eddie was splayed against the couch, wide-eyed and panting, and Richie was leaning into him with his fingers trailing the path down to where they had been before. 

“Rich,” said Eddie, and Richie left him on the couch so he could run to the bathroom for lube and condoms. He had his eyes closed and arms up by the time Richie got back to him, and he looked calm, peaceful like still water on summer mornings, so Richie pressed himself along the length of his body before kissing down his chest and pulling him into his mouth. Eddie mumbled a string of things Richie didn’t quite understand, voice going just a little shrill when Richie sucked harder, his fingers, now wet, pushing inside and twisting familiarly. 

Richie kept his eyes open, watching the rise and fall of Eddie’s breathing, the twitching of his arms and how he looked down at Richie as though he was an apparition, some kind of miracle. It wasn’t new – for all Eddie had never stayed, and for all that he enjoyed fronting about complications, he had always looked at Richie like Richie held every secret to all the different universes out there, especially when they were like this, with Richie’s fingers incessantly rubbing from the inside out. Eddie’s leg hit the side of Richie’s body, and he pulled away from Eddie just in time to hear him sigh Richie’s name with near-perfect enunciation. 

“I thought I told you to fuck me.”

“I _am_,” Richie said, shoving his fingers deeper, grinning when Eddie grunted. 

“Not what I meant.”

“No?”

Eddie blinked, “_Rich._”

Richie huffed, a quick breath of laughter that had Eddie looking away from him with a small smile, then he slid up his body to fit himself in the space between his legs and fuck him for real, like he had asked. 

“Eds,” Richie muttered, leaning into him further, lifting his legs slightly on the process, his navel pressed against the slick line of Eddie’s hard-on between them. “You–”

“Shut up,”

“You feel really fucking good,” Richie told him, just to be contrary, just so Eddie would push slightly up on his elbows and push himself more flush against him. “You just–”

“For fuck’s sake.”

Richie bit down on Eddie’s lip, catching Eddie’s exhale in his mouth before pulling away, “I thought you liked it when I talked,”

“Whatever gave you that impression.”

He sounded out of breath already, voice strained, his words too clear like he was trying hard not to sound wrecked, which was enough of a dead giveaway to have Richie moving faster, hips snapping harder, fucking elated to be on the receiving end of Eddie’s bitching. “You always talk back,”

“Doesn’t mean I _like_ it,” Eddie spit out, so Richie leaned back just far enough to wrap a hand around Eddie, adjusting his tempo until he heard Eddie choke around a high-pitched sound, only to speed up right after, licking into Eddie’s slack mouth.  


“Whatever gave _me_ that impression,” Richie mumbled against Eddie’s lips, feeling his thighs shake and reveling too in the tremor of Eddie’s body, “Huh?”

“Rich,” Eddie warned, right before his hips bucked and Richie felt him spill all over his hand, too warm, and he dragged his hand away and pressed himself against Eddie, feeling them stick together as he kept moving until he stopped, too. 

Eddie sighed against the top of Richie’s head, “You’re the worst.”

– 

True to his word, Eddie stayed, bullying Richie into lending him his best pair of pajamas and socks, and curling into himself as far away from Richie as his bed allowed. Richie watched his back, feeling a little ridiculous. He probably wouldn’t sleep – it was too dark, and he was too tired and wound up, but he must have underestimated Eddie if he had thought Eddie wouldn’t notice it. He turned around, quietly, still too far away, and Richie sighed. 

“I don’t think they would’ve kept him alive that long.”

Eddie hummed, “Why not?”

“Just–” Richie paused, “I really hope not. That’s not–the death now, Ed.”

“It was too violent.” Eddie said, following Richie’s line of thought as easily as if were his own. “There’s a lot of planning, obviously, but–”

“But before, not in the moment.”

“So Georgie–”

“--He was taken, somewhere else, but I think–It’s hard to imagine that whoever did that to Annie Cavanaugh would’ve paced themselves.”

Richie heard Eddie gulp, loudly, and he turned toward him in the dark, feeling Eddie move away just as he moved infinitesimally forward. 

“Twenty-seven years is a long fucking time.”

“It’s likely they were waiting for something, then.”

“For what?” Richie asked, “What the fuck could they have been waiting for?”

Eddie shifted, exhaling loudly in the dark. “We should see if they have more in common than we thought.”

“They went to the same school.”

“So did we,” Eddie pointed out, “It’s not like Derry’s spoiled for choice.”

“Her house’s nowhere near where Bill’s was, her parents didn’t seem to have the same habits as Bill’s, nothing really stands out.” Richie sighed. “Good to know we still have fuckall.”

Richie heard as Eddie patted his pillow, obviously hitting pause on the conversation. “We’ll look into it tomorrow.”

– 

Richie was dreaming of Bill again. Bill, too big for the denim shorts he was wearing, running across the street to Richie, his laughter echoing loudly all around them. He looked happier than Richie could recall seeing him in years. Bill stopped just short of toppling Richie over, his hands all over Richie’s arms, his eyes crinkling at the corners, happiness infectious. 

“We found him,” he said, pulling Richie forward by the hand, “We found Georgie.”

Richie sprang awake to the sound of his phone going off – not his alarm, but the shitty standard iPhone ringtone instead, twice as loud in a way that seemed inexplicable until he realized Eddie’s phone was ringing, too, in near perfect synchrony. He shoved at Eddie once before reaching over him to answer the call,

“Tozier speaking,” he said, three seconds before it occurred to him it was still too dark out for there to be good news. 

On the other side, Mike’s voice sounded gruff, “We need you at the scene.”

“Is there–” Richie sat up, jostling Eddie on the process of fumbling around for his glasses. He put them on only to stare at the wall opposite to him, heart on his throat. 

“We have a second victim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so! i'm apparently going to be a bit slower with this, mostly because real life is sucking ass at the moment, but hopefully i'll manage to update this weekly, or something, as it's now my official project for the creative writing group i'm part of. for whoever's still reading this, thank you very much for the patience, it means the world! <3


	6. Third Victim

Despite being obviously full of people, the house was still eerily quiet as Richie and Eddie stepped inside. Mike was leaning against the back of the couch, coffee in hand, looking just about as miserable as Richie had ever seen him. He looked up when Richie cleared his throat. 

“CSI team’s upstairs,” he clarified, gesturing with his head in the direction of the stairs. Eddie glanced around him with a frown, so he sighed, “First responders got here about an hour ago, after the parents got home from a dinner party and found the scene.”

Richie scratched at his face, “No body?”

“No more of it than last time, no.”

“Okay,” Richie nodded, more to himself than to Mike. “Do you know how old the victim was?”

Mike blinked at him, “He was fourteen.”

“Do we have a name?”

“Jack Peterson,” he told them, before pointing at one of the pictures, “He’s got a younger sister, too, but she wasn’t home when it happened. Parents said he was okay to be alone for a while. They’re waiting at the station.”

Eddie nodded, “Thanks, Mike.”

– 

Stan was too busy pointing at different people and directing the activity to talk to them once they got to the bedroom, which meant they were both free to peer in through the door and watch silently as Bev took pictures and Ben stood by the corner, working on his sketch. There were too many people inside again, and Richie hadn't thought possible that anything could have looked _worse_ than Annie Cavanaugh's room, but, somehow, Jack Peterson's did. 

Richie felt sick, nausea curling in his stomach, and he covered his mouth briefly against the stench wafting from the room. Eddie, when Richie glanced at him from the corner of his eye, looked about as uncomfortable as Richie felt. Pale, sweat starting to pool on his temples, hands obviously shaky. Eddie ran a hand over his face once before wiping it on his pants, and Richie stepped forward just in time for Stan to glance at them and move closer. 

"We've found the rats already." He said, waving a gloved hand toward the already unattached skirting boards. "Everything else is more is less the same. Nothing new about the spattering, no signs of breaking and entering, no blood trails, we're scanning for fingerprints in a moment, but I doubt we'll find anything." 

"Shit," Eddie stated, and Stan nodded at him. 

"The age difference is pretty big this time."

"Which just makes it more complicated. It's one thing to easily overpower a young girl, but–have you seen the pictures, downstairs? Jack was as big a fourteen-year-old as they come." 

"Do you think they're drugging them?" 

"Maybe. Or maybe they're just–strong?" 

"Well," Richie said, "We'd have to have a body to know that for sure." 

Stan sighed, "Like I said, complicated."

Richie scratched his face again, adjusting his glasses before moving past Stan and into the room. "Can I?"

"Knock yourself out." 

He tried his best not to breathe in as he moved closer to the bed, picking up a pair of gloves before he squatted down to stare at the blood-soaked edge of the comforter. Too much blood, again, and everywhere. Pieces of hair, too, and skin, just like last time. Richie still couldn't fucking understand how anyone would've made that much damage without a weapon. He glanced back to see Eddie step closer to the curtains, gazing down past the windowsill. He frowned to himself, nose curling, and Richie's eyes snapped back to the bed. He blinked up at the teddy bear sat on the center of the bed, cocking his head. It was bigger than Annie's had been, but they were close enough in color and shape that they almost looked like slightly different versions of the same toy. 

"Eddie," Richie called, "Look at the bear." 

Eddie tilted his head, mirroring Richie for a second before he turned to him. "Annie Cavanaugh had the same one." 

"Not _exactly_ the same, but yeah. Similar enough." 

"Is that–isn't that too general? Lots of kids have teddy bears."

"Not lots of kids get mauled by a creep in their bedrooms, though, so."

"That's–" Eddie started. "Okay. We should check if–hold on, _Stan!_"

Stan approached them slowly, awkwardly maneuvering past the two agents who knelt by the door, pulling the rodents out of the walls. Richie watched him pull a face at the sight before pausing before them with a questioning look. 

"We need to see that teddy bear up close." 

"We have to wait for Ben to finish, then you can." He turned away from them, "Bev, have you taken pictures of the bear yet?" 

"Yup. Do you need more?"

"From up close, please." 

Bev nodded, bumping her hips into Richie's as she walked past them. "Will do." 

She took the pictures while Richie and Eddie went back to stand by the door, giving Stan's unit space to work. Outside, the sun had just started to rise, and Richie felt the same shitty kind of heaviness weight him down as Eddie stepped closer to him when one of the rays shone over a slick piece of skin. His stomach roiled, so he turned away. Eddie followed the movement, a hand to his arm pulling him sideways, 

"We should go downstairs." 

The smell didn't spread as far this time around, because the agents had bagged the rats up early enough, so Richie inhaled sharply as soon as they turned the corner to the living room, surprised to find that it actually helped. Mike blinked up at them from where he sat, handing his coffee to Eddie when Eddie gestured to it. 

"Thanks," he muttered, taking a large sip that he immediately grimaced at, "How the fuck are you not diabetic yet, dude." 

Mike shrugged, "Used to it, I guess." 

"Fucking disgraceful."

Richie sneaked closer to Eddie, reaching for the coffee and shooting Mike a pleading look. "Can I have some?" 

"Nope." 

"Dude, I'm gonna fucking pass out here if I don't have something to eat." 

"Coffee's not food," Mike pointed out, "But I left some donuts for you in the kitchen."

Richie blinked at him, "You're the fucking best, Michael." 

"Don't call me that."

Richie just smiled at him, wandering over to the kitchen when Mike rolled his eyes at him and handed the chart for Eddie to read. He came back with two donuts and too many napkins in hand, which Eddie took half of, biting into his donut and wiping sugar off his face with way more napkins than strictly necessary. 

With his free hand, he passed the chart to Richie, "Take a look at this. Same first responders."

"Huh," Richie said, though it wasn't that unlikely in a city as small as theirs. "Poor bastards." 

"Yeah," Eddie sounded hoarse from the sweetness of the donuts, and Richie's eyes hovered embarrassingly over Eddie's mouth when he licked the sugar stuck to his lips. "Rich?" 

"Sorry–what?"

"Nothing," Eddie frowned at him, "Never mind." 

Richie cleared his throat before turning to Mike. "How's Bill?" 

"He's fine, all things considered," said Mike, "He seems–less on edge than I expected, I guess. He was still asleep when I left."

"He stayed over at yours?" 

"Seemed like a good idea." 

"It was," Richie told him, "Thanks." 

"He's my best friend too."

"I'm just saying–"

"–Yeah, I know. But we're a team, all of us, so you don't have to."

Richie pushed a hand through his hair as Mike looked at him, weirdly focused. Richie felt too _seen_, and it wasn't a feeling he particularly enjoyed, so he took another bite of his donut and decided to shut the fuck up for the time being. Eddie made a quiet inquiring noise that Richie ignored and Mike frowned at, but they didn't have time to get into whatever _that_ was before Bev appeared at the bottom of the stairs and called them back up.

Stan was holding the bear up with a curious look when Richie and Eddie strode in, and he lifted a finger to stop Richie from speaking for a second, so Richie stayed quiet until Stan looked up at them, giving the bear a small shake. 

"The brand sounds familiar." 

"Does it?" 

"You should check which stores are selling it. Like you said, it's something in common." 

Richie took his phone out, snapping a picture of the tag. Stan was watching him with a peculiar kind of look when he glanced up, as he often did, but Richie still found himself cocking his head at him. 

"I'm just–" Stan started, "We might have something." 

Eddie smiled at him, a small thing that felt almost inappropriate under the reddish blood hue of the bedroom. "We might."

– 

Desk work was so fucking boring, Richie thought, twisting on his chair with his feet up while he waited for the sixth store manager he had had on the phone answer his question. So far, none of the stores on their list had fessed up to selling the specific brand they were looking for, which had Richie so annoyed he had snapped at Eddie twice before Eddie threw a fucking pencil at him and told him to remove his head from his ass. Richie was still pissed, feeling out of sorts and tired, but it wasn't as though he could do anything else. 

Across the room from him, Eddie worked on his own list, comparing the Cavanaugh's statements with the Peterson's and trying his damned best to draw parallels. So far, _nada_, apparently. Richie watched Eddie take a long gulp of his coffee and scratch his head, warming up slightly just from _looking_ at him. 

"Hun, they only sell those at the carnival, none of the other stores work with the brand 'round here," the manager told him, and Richie's eyes must have widened, because the next second Eddie was up from his chair and leaning over Richie's with an expectant look on his face. 

"The carnival?" Richie repeated, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch. Eddie squinted at him. "I'll check that out, then, thank you very much." 

"The teddy bears are from the carnival." 

"Yeah," Richie agreed, standing up from his chair and grabbing his jacket. "We'd better talk to the families again." 

– 

Eddie drove like a maniac, and it was just about Richie's favorite thing in the entire world. He was loud about it, bitching about the other drivers and slapping Richie's hands away whenever he tried changing stations, but Richie was sort of obsessed with his furrowed brows and the specific brand of snarling he dedicated specifically for people who didn't use their turn signals. 

The traffic around Derry wasn't ever busy, if he was being honest, so it was all the more amusing that Eddie was _like that_ about it. Richie snorted, so Eddie glanced at him from the corner of his eye. 

"What?" 

"Nothing, Toretto." 

Eddie turned his head to glare at him, "_Fuck_ off, Rich."

"I'm just saying–"

"Why don't you fucking drive for once, then?" 

"I _could_," Richie told him, even though everyone in town was pretty aware of Richie's status as the world's worst driver. It was _embarrassing,_ but Richie liked to act all magnanimous about letting Eddie take the wheel anyway.

"Sure," Eddie snapped. "If I didn't think you'd kill us I might actually make you do it."

Richie huffed loudly, rolling his eyes. "Take a left here." 

"I _know_, dipshit." 

– 

As it turned out, both the Cavanaughs and the Petersons had visited the carnival around around a year ago, and nearly on the same week, though neither of the families recalled information enough for them to know which stands they had visited. 

Richie was slightly more skilled at talking to people than Eddie was, which meant Eddie got to stay silent and look pretty while Richie pulled out the big guns and actually _worked_, doing his best to seem both serious and approachable. It was a fine balance, and one that Richie had taken the better part of a decade to master, but it worked. 

He placed his coffee back down on the center table before patting imaginary dust of his knees and shaking both of the Peterson's hands. He followed Eddie out of the house, silent until the second they got in the car,

"The unsub must've worked at the circus." 

Eddie gave him a sidelong glance. "They visited a whole year ago, Rich." 

"We had agreed that it must have taken planning." 

"Yeah, but it's just–" Eddie sighed, "It's a lot. So they've been watching these families for a whole year without them knowing it."

Richie didn't answer, not for a while, and when he did his voice sounded too gloomy and heavy for Eddie not to shiver at it, "They're probably not the only ones."

"We agreed that they're doing it again soon." 

"Do you–" Richie cocked his head, "Do you think they know who we are?" 

"You asking if they've been watching us?" 

Richie dragged a hand down his face, "No, I'm–" 

"Rich,"

"I guess I'm asking if you wanna be my date for the carnival tonight." 

Eddie looked at him, blinking at his choice of words. "Why not."


End file.
